My name is Robert
by Areias
Summary: [Endgame Spoilers] The Multiverse exists. Peter has found him. Except, his name isn't Tony... It's Robert.
1. My name is Robert

Peter squints as he looks out across the panorama, bathed in the lights and sounds and gaudy not-quite-night that New Yorkers are so used to. Streets and avenues stare back at him, at once familiar and foreign. From time to time his gaze would pass over a corner of the city before jerking back to refocus on a building, or a block, or some ordinary intersection, pausing until he picks out a part that's not quite like the others—like playing a giant, never-ending find-the-difference game.

It's… _jarring_. Sure, sprinkled here and there are some blocks that look almost identical to his world's, but even more parts of the city, entire swaths even, are just… _off_. The skyline, too, is wrong, with buildings popping up where they shouldn't, and others leaving gaping voids in their absence.

Like the Avengers Tower… or rather, the lack thereof.

Peter clenches his jaw and tears his eyes away from where the tower is supposed to be. He palms the rough texture of the skyscraper's exterior. It's his second-favorite spot to cling to and be moody on. At least the Empire State Building is the same as he remembers, complete with the exact same security camera configurations and blind spots—seriously, what are the odds of _that?_

For the fourth time since he's arrived, he wonders why this hugely inconvenient detour happened in the first place. It's probably his horrid sense of direction at work, he decides. His topographagnosia—that's legit what it's called—is probably so bad that it made his Multiverse Quantum Spacetime Guidewatch malfunction. _God_ that's a mouthful (the watch, not the affliction). Everyone would be better off calling it a Gadget. Or a Gizmo? A Goober?

Yeah, he'll just call it a Goober from now on.

Peter sighs and stares at the piece of machinery in resignation. To be fair, he _did_ get briefed on the possibility of this exact scenario happening—something close to a one-in-ten-thousandth chance, or so Mr. Beck said—which is kind of impressively low, given the magnitude of what they've accomplished.

And, again to be fair, it's not as if Peter is really… surprised, anymore, especially with his luck in recent months.

He knows he _ought_ to care. He ought to be more worried. He's supposed to be Spider-Man, supposed to do what he always did when entering a new world: find out what it's like, locate a safe spot, and gather information. See if it needs his help; because no matter what universe, no matter what dimension, people are people.

But he's so _tired_. Fighting, saving people, doing _good_. More and more often he finds himself wanting to run away as far as possible, to a place that doesn't need constant saving. _You shouldn't even be doing this_, a small voice would nag from time to time. _You're worthless. You never saved anyone. You couldn't save _**_him_**.

Peter knows that voice is wrong—because he has these gifts and if he doesn't use them then what did Uncle Ben die for?—and yet he just can't seem to help his thoughts. And it's hard; hard not to feel young, and stupid, and alone, when he knows there won't be a slightly annoyed voice answering his calls, tired but never hanging up while he blabbers about school, or new ideas, or the day's herowork.

Then, before he knows it, he's doing things more to cope than to help. To _feel_ alive himself, than to help others stay alive.

He scoffs. Cope. People always seem to ask how he's _coping_. Even people who he knows loves him. May. Pepper. Happy. It makes him angry that they just don't get it.

As if anyone can just, _cope_. Just move _on_. As if he can ever forget that moment the blue light snuffed out.

They all said he's 'honoring a great memory', as if it's consolation and he should be instantly cheered. Like, yeah, maybe that ought to have given him more of a purpose, but on some nights its… hard. Those nights, when the suit chafes and burns on his skin, when the night air becomes suffocating, when he would see yet one too many red-and-gold graffiti, a tribute—

Peter gulps down air and forces himself to calm down. He's gotten quite good at that. He bites his lip and blinks.

_Pathetic_, he thinks, half joking, half bitter. Even after four months, he's still stuck in this _limbo_. The brochures and guidebooks, they're all a bunch of crap—because it didn't get… hasn't gotten… will never get _better_. It's there, creeping up behind him when he least expects. It's there, even after he's learned to shove it beneath sarcasm and witty banter. It distills, condenses, reverberates; sometimes overwhelms.

It'll take three days for the field to recharge and re-align itself. Three days to spend in this strange alternate dimension, this less-swanky version of his New York, with dirtier air and heavier clouds, but also more people, more hustle and bustle, more energy.

But no… _him_. Never _him_. Peter's looked. He's been to six other universes already.

No _him_.

He turns and leans his forehead against the cool glass. The dark inky surface dances and pulses with the city lights behind him.

"I miss you, Mr. Stark." His breath fogs on the smooth pane. He has to try really fucking hard so his voice doesn't crack.

He forces air into him, to push back the tightness.

"Please… let me find you."

Silence answers him, like it always does.

* * *

The vibrations are what he notices first, passing through the concrete and stone and steel of the building's bulk to tickle at his soles, like tremors in a spider's web.

Peter tilts his head, feeling the stiff sinews of his neck crack and pop. He's been staying in the same spot for an hour, he reckons.

Then the faintest of melodies reach him, and he realizes that the vibrations are music. Very _loud_ music.

Somewhat groggy, Peter turns his head to look up, where the rest of the Empire State's impressive height disappears into the gloom. He shrugs. Couldn't hurt, he decides. Besides, the music is kind of good—unfamiliar and different in style, but good.

He webs and climbs the rest of the way up, still careful to avoid the cameras. As he gets closer to the top, he makes out burning beams of light poking into the sky. He makes out laughter and the din of conversation. He makes out cheers and applause and the click of cameras.

It's a good thing the Building is a carbon copy of the one in his world, or someone would have found him by now. Peter swings and jumps expertly in the blindspots, and soon he's just below the Observation Deck.

Where a party is in full swing.

Practically next to the Deck, now, Peter pokes his head over the railings, relying on his Sense to tell him where the crowds are thinnest. Tuxedoed men and elegant women are everywhere, laughing and chatting and dancing, glasses of champagne in their hands. They all seem to be converging on one side of the Deck, so Peter takes this chance to hop over the railings and shimmy his way up to the terrace above.

There must be close to a hundred people in attendance tonight. Peter thinks they must be either business people or entertainment people—he sees quite a few lavish dresses, blazing with colors and ostentatious display, looking not at all practical to move around in.

Peter wonders what the party is for. Then again he doesn't really care. He occupies himself by observing the way the people move, the way they talk. The suit helps filter out the worst of the bright lights and sounds, and he sticks himself to a wall, just quietly watching.

It's been so long since he's been to a party. When was the last time?

Ah, that Stark Industries Charity Tony had roped him into attending, a few months before Thanos. '_Pepper forced me to go so now I'm forcing you to go_,' the man had said, grinning. '_Misery loves company, kid_.'

That was a century ago.

Peter sighs. Maybe he'll recognize some people here, he thinks, even if they're not the people he _wants_ to recognize. He's already seen six incarnations of the Kardashians across as many universes, for example, and his mouth twitches in disgust at the thought of meeting a seventh. It makes him angry to think people like _them_ exist across the multiverse, but not the warm, sarcastic voice he hears in his dreams, or the hand he wants to feel ruffling his hair after missions, saying, '_good job, kid_'.

He brushes his thoughts away.

_Well, guess what? Life doesn't work the way you want_. _Suck it up, Parker_.

A round of thunderous applause drowns out his thoughts. Peter huffs. Another celebrity has probably just arrived; either that, or some kind of speech is about to start. He couldn't care less, either way. Someone clears their throat

"Hello, hello!"

Peter almost falls off the antenna. His head whirls to pinpoint the voice, a ship homing in to the beam of a lighthouse. He yanks off his mask, and the world assaults him with information and sound and light, and his heart rate skyrockets to probably over 150, pounding relentless at his temples. He ignores all that. They don't matter. He doesn't matter. He fixes his gaze in the direction where most of the applause is coming from.

All that matters is the voice, _that_ voice, _his_ voice—Peter holds his breath, throat throttled, his mind a potpourri of fleeting words and formless thoughts and disbelief and _disbelief_ and **_disbelief_**. And beneath it all… a hint of what strays dangerously close to hope.

"Thank you, thank you all so much for coming!"

It's _him_. It's _got_ to be him. The timbre, the confidence, the hidden smirk. The warmth.

Peter never ran so fast in his life. Ran, hopped, skipped. He could've thwhipped himself over, but his entire body was shaking and he didn't trust his aim. He skids to a halt by the end of the terrace, panting hard even though the short sprint should've been like a casual stroll to his enhanced body.

He hesitates a split second. Then he looks down—

It's him It's him _It's hIM IT's HIM _**_IT'S HIM_**. He is here, he is in this universe. He is alive, _alive_, _aliVE_, _ALIVE_, **_ALIVE_**.

Peter crumples onto the floor, barely keeping enough wits about himself to rein in the volume of his gasping breaths. They came, and came, and came, wracking his thin wiry form, tsunamis of joy and relief, and still that disbelief. Abruptly he snaps his head up over the low concrete wall, terrified that the man would be whisked away if he so much as blinked, like a mirage, a hologram, another one of BARF's cruel simulations.

And he'd lose him again.

But no. The man is still there, still present, _right_ there. Talking. Laughing. Holding a champagne glass. He says a toast, mingles with some celebrities, takes a sip.

Peter laughs. It's a quiet laugh, yet somehow hysterical. Half-deranged.

Seven worlds. Seven universes.

_I found you_, he thinks._ I found you_.

He thinks it so strongly, so violently, that he can almost imagine it hurtling across the air, louder than any shout or declaration.

_I found you, Mr. Stark_.

* * *

"Bye honey! Love you!"

Robert puts down his phone and smiles fondly in the direction of the Hamptons, invisible behind New York's skyline and its pulsating, effervescent night. Just a short drive away, Susan and the kids are waiting for him, with the promise of pop tarts and a family movie night. No, nothing from the MCU… Exton's in a bit of a Batman phase right now, and Avri idolizes her brother.

Hey, at least he'll be watching a _different_ billionaire superhero on screen for a change!

Robert chuckles and shakes his head. The whirlwind press tour ended not too long ago, and overall, he's had a very good few days. It's nice to finally have the chance to wind down and enjoy a well-earned meal or two with his friends and co-stars, not to mention a few (more than a few!) video calls with his family.

The din of the party grows louder behind him. He's been able to excuse himself from the general hubbub with Susan's phone call, and he breathes in the night air, not exactly in a hurry to get back. He's always loved the energy and goodwill coming from the fans, but eleven years and ten movies in, it's both bittersweet and incredibly satisfying to have completed his journey in such a way. This fundraiser ball will be the last official engagement for him in quite a while, and he's looking forward to the peace and quiet (not that things are ever _that_ quiet with a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old).

A small voice pipes up from behind him.

"M-Mr. Stark?"

Robert snorts. No rest for the wicked, it seems. All the same, he turns around and cocks an eyebrow, stepping effortlessly into character. A trivial kindness on his part can be the highlight of someone else's day, so why not play Tony for a little while longer?

"Alright, you found me," he says with a quick shrug. The light from the skyscraper's spire blinds him temporarily, and he can only make out the shadow of a figure. "And you are? Come on, step forward."

The figure remains frozen. Robert squints. It's a man, he thinks—not very tall (which is saying something, coming from him), and built rather strong. Probably one of the younger guests at the ball.

He beckons again. He knows how to deal with star-struck fans. "Come on," he says, this time letting a bit of warmth into his voice. "I'm not gonna fire a missile at you. Unless you're secretly from HYDRA?"

The young man is trembling, Robert notices—so violently that, even with a good ten feet's distance and his silhouette darkened by backlight, the shiver is still apparent.

The actor shrugs. Sometimes fans get more than a bit overwhelmed; he's not one to judge. He takes a step, still squinting, and hears a sniff. Ah, so they've probably seen Endgame, huh.

But then, finally, the person steps closer.

Robert's mouth drops open. Then he beams. "Tom? I thought you're in Mexico!" He strides forward, arms outstretched. "Should've given me a heads-up that you were dropping in!"

Tom is oddly silent, but Robert hears an unmistakable gasp as his arms wrap around the young man. There's a split second pause, and then Tom is hugging him back, almost uncomfortably tight.

"Woah there," Robert says, taken aback. "Press tour that bad, huh?"

Tom doesn't answer. He's still trembling. Robert frowns at the texture at his fingertips.

"Is that—" he looks down, and laughs. "Did you smuggle that off set?"

Tom still doesn't answer. Instead, he… whimpers. There's no other word for it. He whimpers: a plaintive, tiny noise, halfway broken.

"Mr. Stark," he croaks, and buries his face in Robert's shoulder. Then, quietly, powerfully, he begins to sob.

Robert rubs his co-star's tense heaving shoulders. For a prank scene, Tom is really giving it his all—tears are coming hard and fast, and already the fabric of his tuxedo is damp. _You owe me a new suit_, Robert thinks fondly as he settles into the rhythm of the shoot. He wonders where the cameras are at, and wonders where they'll use this footage; maybe on the press tour for Far From Home?

He expects someone to shout _And Cut_ from the sidelines. Tom just hasn't stopped crying, and his grip is tighter than ever. But then a full minute passes, and all he hears is the buzz of conversation back from the party, and the occasional whistling wind, and Tom's quiet, devastated sobs.

Surreptitiously he glances around. He's been in the industry long enough to know every possible camera angle they can surprise him with, and… he doesn't see a camera. Not even a drone.

_This is him_, Robert realizes with a pang in his heart. _Just him_.

He hasn't seen this kind of panic in the young actor ever since the early days of Spider-Man's inception into the MCU, and even back then, Tom had certainly never just… broken down, like this. Robert doesn't ask about why he's here at the party, why he's in costume, and a million other questions that demand answers. Those can come later.

"Hey," he says, gently brushing the young man's hair. "Hey, hey. It's okay, buddy."

"I'm sorry," Tom gasps. "I-I'm s-sorry, Mr. Stark."

Robert frowns. He double and triple-checks that there really is no camera, before his gaze comes back to the boy in his arms. It makes no sense. Why would Tom not drop character? Yet the emotions seem so genuine.

"Do you want to go inside for a bit and talk?" Robert offers finally, unsure again whether or not this whole thing is a prank.

Tom seems to consider for a moment, before he nods. Almost sheepishly he steps away from Robert, still sniffling. He takes a shaky breath, visibly steadying himself.

"I'm so, _so_ sorry, Mr. Stark," he says, glancing at his feet. "I… I guess I'm called Tom in this dimension but I…" he trails off.

Robert's frown deepens. Before he can further question his young co-star, though, his phone buzzes, and out of habit he slips it out of his pocket.

It's a message. From Tom.

* * *

**[Tom Holland]**: just wrapped up press tour in Mexico!

**[Tom Holland]**: heard u're on the last leg too, Boss Man, so congrats

**[Tom Holland]**: oh and jake says hi

**[Tom Holland]**: see u stateside! say hi to susan & the kids for me :)

**[Tom Holland]**: Sent a photo.

* * *

Robert swipes his phone open. It's a photo of Tom and Jake, making the webshooting motion as they enter the airport gates, a crowd of fans behind them. Robert blinks. He lifts his gaze.

Tom is in front of him, in costume, head still lowered.

He looks down at his phone. Double-checks the time-stamp.

Tom is in Mexico. About to fly.

Robert feels dizzy. He looks back and forth between the two Toms, then focuses his attention on the Tom who's here. He reaches out and touches his cheeks, trying to see if there's make-up or even a face mask. Tom lifts his head at the contact. His eyes are red and twinkling still. His face is entirely real.

"Who… are you?" Robert asks in a whisper.

"I'm, I-I'm Peter," the young man stammers. "Peter Parker." He looks on the verge of tears again. "Mr. Stark, you have no idea, I just—I've been to so many dimensions and—"

"I'm not Mr. Stark," Robert says, numbly. He pinches a cheek, his own this time. It hurts. It's real. "My name is Robert."

Not-Tom looks as if he's about to say something when he blinks. A split second later, he leaps up—ten feet, easy—over Robert, over the balcony, and over the railings.

Robert's heart almost stops. He rushes to the edge of the Deck, and looks down in stunned horror.

The young man hasn't fallen. Instead, he is plastered to the side of the building—no wires, no safety harness, no equipment of any kind. Just… sticking.

Robert blinks. Blinks again. His mind is blank.

Not-Tom seems to sense something, and looks up. Their eyes meet. Not-Tom gives him a small, grateful smile.

"Robert?"

Robert jumps. He whips around to see Gwyneth, who happens to be at this event.

"Oh hey," he says. He gulps even though his mouth feels dry. "Hey."

Gwyneth smiles. "You were taking so long they sent me to find you. Everything fine back home?"

"Uh, yeah! Of course, of course."

"Good to hear. Come on, they're waiting for your speech."

And with that, she's already moving away.

Robert breathes out. He casts one last look over the railings.

Not-Tom is still there, clinging to the building. _Peter_ is still there. The boy hasn't looked away, and upon catching Robert's gaze, his eyes shine.

"Wait for me," Robert blurts out. "I want to talk to you."

Peter's eyes widen. Then he nods.

"Okay."

* * *

Part 1 of 2. Also check out my Iron Family drabble, **Hearts of Iron**, available under my profile!

You can find me on tumblr as saieras!


	2. His name is Peter

**Thanks for the wait, everyone! I hope it's worth it.**

* * *

Plastered to the side of the building, Peter waits.

He's no stranger to waiting. In fact, he's been waiting most his life, he reckons: for approval, for purpose, for someone to tell him he's needed, before Tony Stark had come along and yanked him off the ground, from zero to twenty thousand miles an hour. Granted, it doesn't mean he's particularly _good_ at said activity—he gets nervous and antsy and way too many thoughts go through his brain, even on a good day, and he has a hard time keeping them all out—but Peter is no stranger to waiting.

Right now, however, it appears his patience is being sorely tested. He feels like he's fifteen again (which was exactly one birthday ago but that's not the point), feet tapping faster than riverdance dancers, urging the clock to tick _just_ a bit faster so class could end and he could don his mask and go webslinging. He wants so many things, all at once: there's so much to do, to hear, to see.

And to _say_. God, there's _so_ much to say. More than Peter knows how, more than he even comprehends. He wishes there's still a Baby Monitor Protocol on his suit so he can show every bit of footage he has instead of talking, but of course that won't be enough and he'll have to fill in the gaps, and he just knows he'll end up babbling about Morgan and Pepper and Happy and Rhodey and May, and his vacation and Ned and MJ and Nick Fury and all the crazy things that's happened, and his kiss and how Mysterio showed up and—

Peter gulps, forcing air through his body like one of those too-bright balloons they hand out when you go to Coney Island, until he's grounded in the texture of the granite under his fingertips, weathered smooth. He's so jittery that he finds himself barely holding on to the surface like a Post-It note re-used once too often, and has to kind of remind his body to stay sticky from time to time—something he hasn't had to do in years. Briefly he considers crawling over to a small ledge to perch, but Mr. Stark told him to wait _here_, and if he moves the man may never find him again, and he'll end up losing his only chance, and when the time's up he—

Peter shakes his head and snorts. _Mr. Stark's not going anywhere_, he tells himself. The billionaire is here at this event, seems to know him (or whoever he is in this universe) quite well, and displayed what Peter thinks is a genuine desire to talk more. There's no way the man would leave! But maybe he shouldn't move from this spot, just to be safe. The party can't be long, a few hours at most. He's waited for months; surely he can wait that much longer.

God. He doesn't remember being this anxious in… well, in weeks, because he's a naturally anxious idiot and anxiety is kind of part of the daily routine by this point, but still… he is here! Peter's found him, against all conceivable odds, and they're going to talk and hug again, which is somehow more nerve-wracking than fighting some extra-dimensional beings in Piazza San Marco, if a different flavor of nerve-wracking, and for the first time in however many months, Peter feels awake. Alive.

No, that's not quite right… he'd felt plenty awake during his battles with the Elementals, and plenty alive when MJ pressed her lips on his, back in London. This, now, this is a more nuanced quality, sort of like brushing away a faint film of fog that has hung over everything, or like optimizing a CPU to run at its ideal clock speed.

_Present_, Peter decides finally. He feels _present_.

Because before today, even during fights or kisses or conversations, a part of himself would remain occupied, like a small, broken roomba roaming the recesses of his mind: mostly ignored but always underfoot, sometimes a nuisance, and other times dredging out bits and pieces of his memories and dumping them at his feet—afternoons spent in the lab, way too many trips to Ben & Jerry's, mock debates about the merits of Caltech just to rile up a certain MIT alum… like shattered paintings, or old video files with just the right amount of vivid and some cheap AfterEffects filter added over them, _A Film by Peter Parker_.

Those are happy memories; used to be happy memories, back when they didn't crumble down to a bland, uniform gray, coalescing into a sea that spread as wide as yearning and plunged as deep as grief. From time to time it would surge into a frothing riptide, inundating him and everything around him, tinting his world red and gold and all _wrong_, and Peter would remember, _Oh, he's gone_, and every ounce of joy would shrivel into guilt, and he can only wade through the receding tide, trying to stay sane.

But not this time.

Peter shakes his head and presses his cheek to the cool stone, drawing in raspy breaths. The sudden tightness behind his eyes takes him by surprise, and briefly he wonders what emotion might be driving them. He hasn't cried in Thor-knows how long, yet suddenly, in the span of ten minutes, he's crying for a second time today. The first time was just sheer relief, he thinks, but this time—

He laughs, a wet gurgle that bridges a sob and a chuckle, because _who the hell cares?_ It's so good, so devastatingly good—hell, borderline _intoxicating_, even—to just… be here, again. Be present. After all, here he is, sticking to granite over a thousand feet above NYC, and for once the churning grey sea that always accompanied him is nowhere to be felt.

_I found you_, he thinks again, for probably the hundredth time already but feeling just as dizzy as the first. He doesn't put his mask back on, because he figures he can use the sensory overload—the pulsating lights, the din of chatter, the aroma of hors d'oeuvres—to distract him from the fact that he, that _Tony_, is _right there_ and _hugged_ him and _talked_ to him and he's less than a hundred feet away, on the deck, forming words which Peter can actually _listen_ to—not for content, but for voice, and tone, and that wonderful timbre.

And for what seems like a minute or an hour, he finds himself cupping that surreal, fragile joy, like it's some intricate Lego model that might drop and shatter at any moment, but as he listens and waits and listens, thinking about everything and nothing, he knows it's here to stay.

ooo

Mr. Stark comes for him much sooner than he expects. Not two minutes after the speech ends, Peter senses his footsteps, hurried but in small bursts, like a cat trying to avoid being seen. A moment later, he hears a whisper from above.

"Psst. Hey, kid. It's me." A pause, almost hesitant. "Are you still here?"

Peter nods, then remembers the man can't see him.

"Yeah," he answers, before he scrambles up the wall and hops back over the railings, landing about two feet in front of Mr. Stark—who jumps.

"Jesus Christ! I forgot you can do that!"

The boy smiles sheepishly. God, it's so good to see this face again, warm and vibrant with life. On a physical level, he knows the man in front of him isn't Mr. Stark (isn't even called Tony, apparently?), and obviously didn't defeat Thanos in the way Mr. Stark did (thank goodness)… but on a conceptual level, it's _really_ difficult to wrap his head around all that. The glee from earlier hasn't faded, though, making him want to blurt out something, _anything_. Everything he ever wanted to say to the man barges into his mind before abruptly leaving, like overexcitable puppies with zero attention span, and he finds himself completely blank, cause he doesn't want to blabber but he knows if he opens his mouth he will start doing exactly that.

It's comical, really: he's been so fixated on finding the man, he hasn't quite thought about what to do after, let alone rehearsed their eventual conversation. He knows there's A Lot™ he has to get off his chest, but his thoughts are about as organized as earphones left in a pocket for too long, which he has no time nor capacity to sort through. In retrospect, it should've been common sense to plan this whole off-kilter reunion thing out—_This isn't a reunion_, he has to remind himself sternly—but perhaps a part of him was always too skeptical, too afraid of being hurt… too scared to hope. It was easier to lose himself in the business of universe-hopping, because the moment he starts working out the details of a reunion (_This isn't a reunion!_), it might've never happened.

Except it happened. _Is_ happening, _right_ _now_. And he's staring at Tony Stark with his mind zeroed out, gaping like an ocean sunfish caught in a NatGeo documentary.

That's when Peter realizes the billionaire is also staring back at him, gaping like an ocean sunfish with a beard. For a moment, the man even looks like a schoolkid with his hand raised, a million and one questions that he's dying to unload, a weird mix of curious and awkward—a touch _bashful_, even.

Peter scoffs and dismisses the notion, because it's utterly ridiculous. The man's Tony Stark, for crying out loud—he's got more charms than the entire Harry Potter universe! Bashful shouldn't be a word in his dictionary. He's probably just gearing for some witty opener, before he asks all the standard questions like—

"Can I see your hands?"

Peter blinks.

The man looks like he was also taken by surprise. "God, I'm sorry!" he chuckles, shaking his head. "That came out of nowhere! What I meant to say, was—"

"My… hands?" asks Peter.

"—was that—uhm." The man sighs. "Yes, your hands," he confirms, evidently deciding to just roll with it. He gestures at the red and black fabric. "Like, without the gloves, though."

"Oh," says Peter. "Uh… the gloves are kinda attached to the suit, so I can't really take them off."

"Right. Okay. That's fine, I just wanted to check, if possible. So let me clarify: this isn't some kind of advanced costume? You haven't got, like, superglue on your fingertips, right?" Peter's confused expression must have told him the answer. "Right. Okay. _God_ you look _so_ much like Tom I'm having a hard time—alright, ehhem. So no hands. What about, uh, your—" he makes the webshooting gesture.

"… my webshooters?" Peter ventures.

"Your webshooters! Can you do the—the thing—"

The boy frowns. "What thing?" He thwips a strand at the granite wall behind the man. "Like that?"

"Yes!" Mr. Stark exclaims, giving Peter a start. Then the man reaches out, uncharacteristically timid at first but soon with a sudden confidence, and grabs the material, which squelches under his grip. He laughs and pokes at the webbing, then with both hands he tugs at it, flicks it and watches it vibrate. "My _God_ that is cool. _Wow_. Okay so you're real, let me—just give me a sec to sort of—" he laughs again, putting his weight on the webbing like leaning against a rail. "I've got _so_ many questions! How are you even here? No no, don't answer that—this isn't a good place to talk. Wanna head inside? Oh no you can't, the paps will swarm you… do you have other clothes?"

The barrage of questions leaves Peter feeling faint, his mind abuzz like an overburdened graphics card trying to render something beyond its specs. None of this was in the script (not that he has one). If he didn't know better, he would almost think Tony Stark is… _geeking out_. But surely that's impossible. People geek out to Mr. Stark, not the other way around.

"I—" he begins, stammering, "O-other clothes…?"

"Yeah. Doesn't have to be a suit, just anything that wouldn't scream 'I'm Spider-Man', you know. I guess people might take you for a really, _really_ good cosplayer, but you'd still stand out like a sore thumb. And trust me, with this many people here tonight? You don't wanna get cornered by reporters."

"Oh," Peter says, small. "I… I don't have any other clothes."

The sentence sounds vaguely familiar, like deja vu, and he thinks he must have said it before. Before he can put his finger on it, however, Mr. Stark smiles at him, warm.

"Okay, we'll sort that out."

Those few words are all it takes. The next second, and Peter's on top of the Vent Tower on Governors Island, watching tugboats tow in the Staten Island Ferry he'd failed to save. Back then, a ferry with a hundred people seemed like a mission of colossal stakes, and his suit being confiscated seemed like a catastrophe from which he'd never recover. Back then, the expression on Mr. Stark's face seemed unbearable: the eyes that contained at once fear and anger, the lips that were pursed into a thin line, quivering with disappointment. Back then, Peter thought it was the end of the world.

How fucking naive.

He sighs. What he wouldn't give to go back to a time when the universe wasn't at stake: when all that mattered was how to schedule patrols around his extracurriculars, when he didn't wake up at 3 AM from dreaming about his disintegration, when he didn't have to worry about becoming 'the next Iron Man'.

When Tony Stark was still alive.

"Hey, kid," Mr. Stark says. "Uh… kid? You okay?"

Peter blinks, puzzled. Then he senses the droplet sliding down his cheek. Oh, _great_.

He tries to answer, he really does, because it's so fucking _rude_ to just, burst into tears in front of someone who he technically doesn't know, but when he takes in a breath and attempts to say he's fine, all that comes out is a whimper.

In front of him, the man's face is full of concern, almost the exact same face Mr. Stark would make, and for a nanosecond Peter could pretend…

Except there's not an arc reactor glowing on the man's chest and his name isn't Tony but something that starts with an R, and Peter was just trying to trick himself into believing, _believing_, _**believing**_, as if calling him Mr. Stark would _make_ him Mr. Stark, and suddenly the unfathomable gulf of that ceaseless grey sea returns to suffocate him, punishing him for daring to escape, and he gasps as it pummels him to the depths.

He manages (barely) to retain enough wits and attempt an apology. He's been a mess tonight, and nobody should have to deal with that from a total stranger—although the man obviously knows something about Spider-Man and might not be a total stranger (which is somehow even worse). But he chokes a bit on his spittle, and the apology tumbles out in jumbled syllables, and he ends up staring at the brown eyes and iconic beard, trying to think of anything to say other than 'I really, really, _really_ fucking missed you', because that's not Mr. Stark and—

An arm wraps around his shoulders. Before Peter can register anything, it yanks him in and holds him snug.

"Wear my jacket," Robert says, his voice low, creating a soothing rumble where Peter is pressed against his chest. "My driver will be up here in five minutes. He's going to escort us to my car, alright?"

Peter doesn't understand. He tries to ask, but all he manages is a confused gurgle.

"We need to get you out of here," the man says softly. "Do you have anywhere to stay?"

Peter shakes his head. He usually doesn't linger long when he's in another universe, and frankly he hasn't given it much thought.

"That settles it," Robert announces. "You're coming back with me. We'll grab something to eat along the way, and you can get a shower and a good night's sleep. _Then_ we can figure this whole thing out. Sound good?"

Peter is starting to think the arms feel weirdly familiar, almost like the man instinctively knows how to hold him, even though he's not Mr. Stark and has never hugged Peter before today.

He reckons it doesn't matter.

He nods.

ooo

Peter is silent.

It had been quite tricky to navigate around the reporters and the celebs, especially when one was on the 86th floor of a 90-year-old building, waiting on an elevator with a dozen other people. And then there were the fans waiting at the bottom floor, having somehow gotten wind of this event (in typical fandom fashion). And _then_ there were more reporters, who probably couldn't get an invitation and so were waiting outside, though thankfully they'd been caught off-guard by the early departure.

Robert thinks he did an okay job at getting the boy and himself out of pandemonium. Not _great_—a few people still asked questions about the short figure huddling behind him, wrapped in mufflers and a pair of too-large sunglasses bought five minutes ago at the Empire State Gift Shop, and there were even others who thought the kid looked familiar—but overall Robert thinks he did okay. They were able to evade the largest crowds, being gone before most of them knew, and he'd managed to deflect the more prying questions with jokes and smiles. Peter was his intern, he'd explained, and wasn't feeling well. Severe migraine attack, you see, so it would be nice if everyone could refrain from flash photography or loud questions… after all, the kid already threw up once, and there's no telling when he'll do so again. What? Robert doesn't need to leave as well? Nonsense, he cares about his people, it's his duty to make sure the kid's okay, and if everyone will excuse them, they have a ride to catch.

Peter has remained silent through it all, hands clenched together at his chest, face pale and gaunt. Robert thinks there _may_ have been a small gasp when he first introduced the boy as his intern, the sole exception to this unfailing muteness, but he isn't sure. The boy could well be a shadow, what with his nonexistent footsteps, his tendency to fold his shoulders in on himself, and his dogged insistence to stay out of sight.

And now, even when they're both safely inside the relative calm of the car, Peter is silent.

Robert wants to ask questions. He has about a dozen (give or take) just off the top of his head, which his 8-year-old self clamors for him to blurt out. A part of him is still that little boy, hiding under the covers with a flashlight propped up next to him, his fingers smudged grey by the black-and-yellow pages of the Webslinger's first adventures; that kid who would have given anything to meet a superhero in real life, the kid who wants to brag to _everyone_ about it. Briefly he even contemplates about telling Tom, but it's too weird, and there are too many unknowns at this point for him to even begin that conversation.

Then there's the other part of him, the boring realist part, who keeps insisting that he must be asleep, and everything is just an elaborate dream. '_There has to be a plausible explanation!_' it rages, like a disgruntled office worker when faced with some inconvenient truth. For a few gut-wrenching moments, it even suggests the possibility that his drinks had been laced—that the evening's events were nothing more than hallucinations, and that he's spiraling into an imminent relapse after so many years of hard-earned sobriety—which leaves him reeling with panic and terror, his fingers digging into the handrest of his seat, nauseated and horrified and wanting to heave just from thinking about what he would tell Susan and the kids.

That's when he feels something on his arm, firm.

"Mr. Star—er, Mr. Robert?" Peter asks quietly. "You okay?"

Robert blinks, and the leather seatback refocuses in front of him. He draws in a shaky breath, then exhales as he reorients himself. The tangibility of it all: the cushion beneath him, the clothes around him, the grip on his arm… they finally help tether him, and he reminds himself that this is all real. Not a hallucination.

He turns to the kid and smiles, grateful. "Yeah. I'm okay."

The kid nods. The whispers of a reciprocal grin twitches at the edge of his lips, but then he turns to look out the window.

Manhattan is never devoid of traffic, especially at this hour of the day, and it's slow going down on 36th street, vehicles almost bumper-to-bumper. Robert studies the boy's silhouette, from time to time splashed yellow-and-white by headlights and street lamps before going dark again, flickering bright and dim in a strangely melancholic pulse. Somehow, with his features half-obscured, Robert finds it easier to tell him apart from Tom. Something to do with the posture, perhaps; a sort of small, heartbreaking vulnerability.

God, he is so _young_. Much younger than Indio, and younger than Tom, even. Barely older than a child.

With a start, Robert realizes the questions that were burning in him just a moment ago have all vanished. Because as novel and outlandish as their predicament is, as much as he'd love to find out everything behind this incredible encounter… this isn't about Spider-Man, his childhood hero come to life. This is about a human, a person. A _kid_. Fictional or not, this kid is seated next to Robert with dried tear streaks on his cheeks, having just comforted the man even when he himself so clearly needed comforting.

And you don't pry a traumatized kid who's obviously still grieving. You take him in, care for him, and let him talk on his own terms.

Robert thumbs the little bit of web left stuck between his fingers, like playing with half-dried glue. He knows a thing or two about trauma, he reckons, and right now all the kid needs is a roof over his head and people to look out for him. He can provide that. Save the theory-crafting for later.

He takes a quick glance at his watch. Susan's probably just finished dinner with the children, and they'll usually be gathered around the large TV in the sunken family room by this time. He swipes open his phone and begins to text.

**[I am Bobert]**: Heads up honey, coming home early

**[I am Bobert]**: Be there in two-ish hours

**[I am Bobert]**: I also

**[I am Bobert]**: I also have a guest

Here he stops, unsure what else he should say. Being a celebrity and a more or less central figure to such a sprawling film franchise means they often entertained guests, but this one is massively different. How should you tell your wife that you are bringing home a literal superhero (that isn't Iron Man)? And not just that, but one specific iteration of a very popular superhero, who's actually just this… _kid_, he found, sticking to the Empire State?

He takes a moment to wonder what the boy might know—which period in the ever-expanding MCU timeline he might've been plucked from, so to speak. He figures it's useless getting into the how or the why, so he's just going to stay in the present and accept that the boy is here, and that he must have originally been from _somewhere_. Judging from the kid's reactions and the tidbits that were let slip, Robert thinks it's safe to assume he's experienced _Endgame_, at the very least.

Just then Peter sits up straight in his seat. When he turns away from the window, there's a twinkle in his eyes.

"We're going to Queens?"

Robert frowns. "Huh?"

The boy gestures at the windshield. "We're headed there right now. I live there." For an instant, he beams. "Do you live there too, Mr. Robert?"

It takes him a few seconds (an embarrassingly long time for a native New Yorker) to remember where they are—en route east toward the Midtown-Queens tunnel.

"No," Robert says, sheepish. "No, I live in the Hamptons. We're just passing through."

"Oh," the boy nods. The fleeting grin fades, then he turns back, and its clear the conversation is over.

When they finally get to the tunnel, traffic has died down somewhat, allowing them to cruise along the road at a decent speed. The boy hunches his shoulders as they enter. Robert watches the light on his profile, bright-dim, bright-dim, a faster rhythm than earlier, seemingly going on forever. As they drive up the exit ramp and into Queens, he sees Peter clench his teeth.

It's then that his phone vibrates, no doubt a response from Susan, and he looks down with mixed relief and apprehension.

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Great! I just told the kids and they're thrilled!

**[Mrs. Downey]**: There's some leftover lasagna if you or whoever's visiting are still hungry

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Or I can ask rosa to cook something else?

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Who are you bringing anyway? Gwyneth? Who else was at the thing?

Robert sighs. It's not like he can or even plans to avoid telling her, but he doesn't think it should be now, over text. He sneaks a glance over at Peter, who's still in the same position and watching the buildings fly by. He shakes his head and begins to type.

**[I am Bobert]**: No not her

**[I am Bobert]**: Not anyone we know

**[I am Bobert]**: Actually thats not true, we do know him

**[I am Bobert]**: But its complicated

**[I am Bobert]**: I promise I'll tell you once I get home

Her reaction is near immediate.

**[Mrs. Downey]**: ?

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Who are you bringing?

**[I am Bobert]**: He's

**[I am Bobert]**: He's Tom's family

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Tom?

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Tom who? You know a ton of Toms

**[I am Bobert]**: Holland

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Oh! One of his brothers?

Robert snorts. That's as close to the truth as he can get, for now.

**[I am Bobert]**: Yeah

**[Mrs. Downey]**: Well they're very welcome

**[Mrs. Downey]**: The kids love Tom, I'm sure they'll love his family!

**[Mrs. Downey]**: What's his name?

Robert hesitates. They're well into Queens by now, and would be home in about an hour and forty minutes. She'll know soon enough, anyway. His fingertips tingle as they hit the letters.

**[I am Bobert]**: Peter

**[I am Bobert]**: His name is Peter


End file.
